


Je Amour Tu

by AudreyXuan



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Anachronisms, BAD FRENCH IN CHARACTER, Bad French, DECENT FRENCH, Drinking, F/M, Fluff, French, Hamiltime, SO MANY DAMN ANACHRONISMS, SO MUCH FRENCH, reader is a badass female military strategist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 11:35:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10684485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AudreyXuan/pseuds/AudreyXuan
Summary: “Could you do a Hercules X reader where he complains how he is the only one who doesn’t know French out of his friends and the reader volunteers to help him ending in fluff. So much auto correct was used here. Thank you sweetie!”Reader is the daughter of a brigadier general, friends with the Hamilsquad, and the Continental Army’s first female military strategist. After learning that Hercules doesn’t speak French, she volunteers to take on the arduous task of teaching him.





	Je Amour Tu

**Author's Note:**

> This isn’t just a “oui oui mon ami” type of French. There’s a lot of French here so I’m not sure how readable it’ll be to Anglophones. If enough people want, I might do a version with translations. In the meantime, that’s what Google Translate is for. 
> 
> (H/C) = hair colour  
> (Y/L/N) = your last name

“Et tout le temps, ils pensent que c’est un informateur!”

Gales of laughter pealed out as Lafayette finished his story. He took this as an opportunity to get another flagon of ale for the table you were seated at, alongside John Laurens, Alexander Hamilton, and Hercules Mulligan. All of you took hearty swigs of your drinks, except for Hercules, who had seemed a bit uncomfortable all night.

“Herc, are you okay? Something on your mind?” You inquired, gently placing your hand on his shoulder.

He cleared his throat and stiffly shifted away from your touch. “Yeah, fine…just…a little shaken up from the battle.”

You nodded warily, then turned to Alex. “Est-ce que quelque chose a passé aujourd’hui? Mulligan a semblé un peu étrange depuis nous nous sommes assis.”

“Non,” Alex replied. “Nous avons gagné la bataille, et il a récupéré des renseignements précieux. Je ne sais pas pourquoi il se comporte comme ça.”

You shrugged your shoulders. From what the other boys had told you, Hercules was usually one of the loudest and most outgoing of the group. And he usually drank heavily the night after a victory. Sure, you had only met him in person once before, but those few minutes of interaction were enough to show you how warm and friendly he usually was. Tonight, however, he was painfully awkward, not just to you, but to the rest of his friends.

By the time Lafayette had returned with more drinks, you had finished your second cup of ale and he eagerly offered to pour you another. You know you would be regretting this the next morning. Rather than make the rational, intelligent decision and politely refuse, you decided to accept Laf’s offer. As the daughter of a brigadier general, and, more importantly, being one of the best military strategists and negotiators in camp, you should’ve been a pro at making good decisions. You were not. Constantly one-upping your all-male colleagues, most of them twenty or more years your senior, was easy. Saying no to another pint of ale was not.

You had barely gotten two sips into your drink before John started poking you.

“Hey, (Y/N),” he said. “You know what you should do?”

You turned to him, not quite drunk but definitely on the edge of tipsy. “Quoi?”

“You should sing.”

By no means were you an excellent singer. Your voice sometimes cracked and faltered on high notes, and many times you would miss a few words while you’d catch your breath. But you were a nice, strong alto who sounded good on drinking songs, mixed with the tenors and baritones of the men. The few other women at camp had much prettier, higher voices, but never did they stay up this late, and if they did, they would certainly not be drinking at a pub with common soldiers. So you were an automatic favourite amongst the men.

“Eh, d’accord. I guess I don’t have any more dignity to lose.” You agreed, switching between languages.

You strained your mind, trying to think of a song that would be appropriate for the occasion. After racking your brain for a few more minutes, you cleared your throat and began:

“ _Alouette, gentille alouette, alouette, je te plumerai. Je te plumerai la tête, je te plumerai la tête. Alouette, je te plumerai._ ”

There was a bit of silence as you paused, but before long Lafayette joined you, and soon enough the other soldiers joined in. John took your hand and you stepped onto your stool and then the table, dancing until you had trouble breathing and spinning round so many times you thought your head was going to come off. By the time you finished the last verse, the entire pub was belting out “Alouette, je te plumerai!” at the top of their lungs. Except for, of course, Hercules, who had been seated and quiet the entire time. He gave you another uneasy look that gave you chills, and not in the romantic way.

“Pardonne-moi,” you said, quickly stepping off the table and grabbing your travelling cloak from the back of a chair. “Je dois aller.”

“You don’t want to stay? Come on, one more round,” Alexander begged.

You smiled and gave him, John, and Lafayette each a peck on the cheek. “Non merci. I’m tired, and it’s almost three anyway,” you said as Alex fastened your cloak around you. “Thank you for all the drinks,” you turned to John. “And the dance.”

You turned around and left the tavern quickly, barely meeting Hercules’ cold eyes before the door closed behind you.

* * *

Sure enough, you woke up the next morning with your head spinning as much as it had when you were dancing on the tables last night with John. You groggily rolled out of bed and threw on a warm dress, checking your journal for today’s itinerary. A morning meeting with General Washington, and then you had the rest of the day to yourself. You grabbed your mitts and threw on a cloak, bracing yourself for the cold.

Snow fell unrelentlessly, and the wind whipped your (H/C) hair around your face. Halfway through your journey to Washington’s tent, you felt your hair freezing stiff and ice-cold mud seeping through your boots. You could hear–no, feel–the other officers laughing at you as you hurried across base. Half of them believed women shouldn’t be in a military site, the other half thought they should–to be cooks, maids, and bedwarmers. The only people you got respect from were the four boys you had drunk with, their battalions, and General Washington. Even the other women had been conditioned to believe that females had no place in war or politics.

“General Washington,” you saluted. You refused to curtsy, an act Washington had agreed with, because, in your defense, “none of the other soldiers did”.

“(Y/L/N),” he replied. “Please, I insist, call me…General Washington.”

You smiled as a befuddled look crossed his face. The General was a respectful and respected man, not to mention a wise leader, but sometimes he could be utterly clueless about some things. Your mind harkened back to when you had to explain to Washington why you needed one week a month off from military council (he was very understanding after that).

“What do we have scheduled today?” You enquired.

“Not much, actually. Just brief me on last night’s battle.”

“It was a huge success, sir. We gained another ten square kilometres of land. With things going the way they are, we’ll finish our campaign three weeks in advance.”

“Ten kilometres…that's…”

“Just about four square miles, sir.”

Washington smiled and walked over to you. “You, (Y/N), are truly brilliant. I still don’t understand why my men won’t accept you, and I apologise on their behalf. Half of them haven’t the faintest idea on how to plan a campaign, let alone win every battle and come out weeks ahead of schedule.”

You blushed. You knew you were a smart woman, but any praise from the general sent you head-over-heels, especially considering how stoic he usually was.

“Thank you very much, sir,” you replied. “Is there anything else you’d like?”

“I don’t believe so, (Y/N). Thank you for your help.”

You were just about to leave his tent when you paused at the last minute and twirled around.

“Actually, General Washington?”

“Yes, (Y/N)?”

“Um, I do have one thing I’d like to ask you about.”

“Go ahead.”

“Yesterday, after the battle…” You paused, reluctant to let him know about your revelry, but continued, knowing that he could hardly shame you for it–nearly every person, from soldier to major general, drank after battle, and especially after a victory. You were well within your limits. “I went to the tavern in town, with Alexander Hamilton, Marquis de Lafayette, John Laurens, and Hercules Mulligan, accompanied by their men.”

“Continue,” he urged.

“Well, while we were…celebrating–”

“Just say drinking, (Y/N).”

You smiled and nodded, almost imperceptibly. “While we were drinking, Mulligan didn’t seem his usual self. He didn’t dance, didn’t sing, didn’t tell any tales from the battlefield like he usually does–”

“Maybe he was tired?”

_“He didn’t even touch his ale.”_

“My God, now that’s uncharacteristic enough to warrant an investigation. And you say he seemed alright, physically? He wasn’t wounded?”

“Not to my knowledge, no.”

“And was he engaging in the conversation at all?”

“No, he was quiet nearly the entire time.”

“Wait a second. What were you singing?”

“ _Alouette._ Why, does it matter?”

“Sing a few bars for me.”

 _“Alouette, gentille alouette, alouette, je te plumerai,”_ You began awkwardly.

Washington laughed heartily, placing a hand on your shoulder. “(Y/N),” he chuckled. “Mulligan wasn’t participating in the conversation because he couldn’t. He doesn’t speak French.”

“What?!” The French had been your allies for years now and nearly every officer of note in the Continental Army could speak at at least an elementary level. “Can he say anything, at all?”

“No, he never learned. He should, though. I don’t know how long this revolution will last, and French is basically an unofficial language of the Continental Army.”

“General Washington,” you interjected. “If you don’t my suggesting so, I’d be quite pleased to teach him. I know I’m not as qualified as some of the other officers, but I’ve known him for years.”

“Yes, that’s quite agreeable,” he replied. “And I believe Mulligan has taken…a liking to you.”

“Yes… um, very good,”  you sputtered out, blushing furiously.

“Very well. I’ll send him over to you this evening. You are dismissed.”

You barely had time to salute before rushing out of the tent as fast as your feet could take you.

* * *

_Me. Mulligan. My tent. Alone. “He has taken…a liking to you…”_

You paced across the floor nervously, smoothing out the wrinkles of a dark blue dress you had changed into. How formal was this going to be? What level of French was he starting with? Really, truly, absolutely nothing, or “Bonjour, comment ça va” nothing? _I’ve only ever taught my younger cousin once or twice and I have basically zero materials here. Why did I even suggest teaching him anyway?_

Scouring your bookshelf, you tried to find few short books that might be suitable, but it was incredibly difficult. Make him read something too easy, and he was going to feel insulted and patronised. Make him read something too hard, and he would feel stupid. You had seriously considered just refusing him and telling Washington you felt too tired to teach when you heard steps approaching. Snapping your head back, you saw Hercules step into your tent.

“Hi, (Y/N),” he said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Likewise, Mulligan.” He sat down on the wooden bench by the tent flap and pulled off his muddy boots, placing them outside. You were the first one in camp to lay down duckboard in your tent, after becoming fed up with the endless dirt and grime in the settlement. It wasn’t two weeks after that nearly every other officer had followed suit.

“It’s nice to see you’ve regained your composure.”

“It’s nice to see you’ve regained your words. You didn’t say a thing last night. If only you had told me you didn’t speak French. But after all, you are a spy and I am but a lowly commoner woman. You outrank me far too much for me to understand your complicated language.” Striding over to your stove and putting a kettle on, you continued. “You could’ve just told me, Mulligan. I would’ve been happy to translate for you.”

Chuckling, Mulligan took down two mugs. “I thought you’d never walk again after seeing you pound back, what was it, four drinks last night? I think you drank us under the table.”

Gesturing for him to sit down at your small eating table you replied, “Four? Seven. Don’t insult me. I drank all of you boys under the table.” You came over with the kettle and poured two cups of tea. “Now, how do you want to do this? To start, I need to first know what kind of French I’m working with, then see how proficient you are in reading and writing, then we can get some books–maybe if I ask Washington he’ll give me leave to go to town and get the new volume of the _Encyclopédie_ –yes, that would be perfect, a good reading level but not too boring. Oh, and I might have some old cahiers you can work with, and you’ll need _un dictionnaire_ and _un Bescherelle_ , obviously–”

“That’s all well and good, (Y/N), but I already had something in mind.” You probably would’ve gone on for hours if Hercules hadn’t interrupted you. Smiling expectantly, you gestured for him to continue. “Well, I know speaking is important, but I kind of wanted to write a letter.”

“What kind of letter? A forged letter from the desk of King George himself? A document of top-secret spy information?” You gasped and asked flirtatiously, “A love letter? To whom?”

A faint blush was making its way up to his cheeks. “No, just in general. I want to know how to write letters in case…I don’t know, a mission goes wrong and I need to communicate with Lafayette.”

“You do know you can just send it to me and I’ll translate and relay it, right? No offense, but it’s probably going to be faster if I translate than if you write, with your French being…what it is.”

“No, I know, but I might need to talk about…guy stuff.”

You nodded slowly. “Okay, so you do want to write a love letter. Who’s the lucky girl?” you teased.

Hercules rolled his eyes, trying to keep his cool. “Can we just get on with it?” he half-joked.

“Yeah. Right. Of course.”

You brought over a slate and some chalk, but this time you started writing out some simple grade-school vocabulary instead of making an outline of the field and a battle strategy, which is what you’d usually use your slate for. After you had a list of about twenty words, you stepped back.

“Okay. Do you recognize any of these?”

“No.”

“Well, can you say your name?”

“No.”

“Do you know any French, at all?”

“No.”

You sighed, slightly exasperated but trying not to show it.

“Actually, that’s untrue,” Hercules added, grinning. “Laf did teach me how to say–”

“Nope, no, don’t want to hear it,” You interrupted, plugging your ears. You’d be willing to bet your life that anything Lafayette taught Hercules was either obscenities or somehow relating to sex.

Instead, you gave him parchment and a quill and told him to copy down the list of nouns you had written, which consisted of words like “un fusil”, “un pays”, and “la guerre”. He did so diligently and the rest of the class went along quite smoothly.

“So, should I…pay you, or…? How do you want to do this?” He asked, pulling on his coat.

“Pay me? What am I, a language prostitute?” You laughed.

He gave you a deadpan stare. “Did you just, like, forget that tutors are a thing that exists?”

The grin dropped off your face as you realised the extent your stupidity, but a small smile crept back. It was like you couldn’t harbour any negative feelings whenever Hercules was around.

“Don’t pay me, Mulligan. It’s a gift. More like I’m just giving you your due. You’re one of the top spies in the whole army. You should know how to speak French.” You took his cloak down from a peg and stood on a  stool to wrap it around him.

“See you tomorrow, then?” He asked, stepping out of your tent.

“Yes. Bonne nuit!”

You watched as he stopped, half-turned around, and tilted his head up, as if he were watching something. You were just about to ask him what he was doing when he replied, in stunted French, “Au–au re…vor.”

“Au revoir,” you corrected, a huge smile on your face. He was already so handsome, but seeing him struggle in French made him a thousand times cuter.

“Oh, and Mulligan?” You called after him. “‘Je m’appelle Hercules’.”

* * *

Hercules continued to visit every day for the next few weeks. As much as you two joked around, he seemed quite dedicated, and by the next month he could carry on a basic conversation. A little rough around the edges, sure, but still sweet–just like Hercules himself.

It was the day of your final lesson. Although it was incredibly tiring to return from a fight or a meeting and still have to teach, it was equally rewarding.  By the time you two rejoined the post-battle festivities, you hoped this time you’d all be singing rounds of _Alouette_ together. All Hercules had to do was pass his final assessment (although it’s not like you’d fail him anyway).

As he seated himself, you retrieved parchment, ink, and a brand new quill from your writing desk. “You can have as much time as you want,” you told him, placing a fresh new sheet in front of him. “Take your time. It doesn’t have to be long, either. Just make it good.”

“I will. I promise.”

You went to your bedroom (well, not _room_ exactly, since it didn’t have walls, but your sleeping area) to give him a bit of privacy, but you had barely settled down with today’s newspaper when he poked his head through the curtain.

“(Y/N), how would you say–” He saw your glare and corrected himself. “Um, comment est-ce qu’on dit ‘love’?”

“‘Love’? What’s are you writing exactly?”

He paused momentarily before answering, “‘I never feel more love than when I am on the battlefield’.”

“Then that would be ‘amour’.”

“Merci. Oh, and just to clarify, ‘I’ is ‘je’ and ‘you’ is ‘tu’, right?”

You nodded as he retreated back to the table. You re-opened your paper, expecting to get at least another half-hour of reading done, when he stepped back through.

“Okay, done.”

“Already? You said you wouldn’t rush.”

“I didn’t. I planned out what I was going to write ahead of time.”  You smiled, very impressed with him. He had taken this whole ordeal much more seriously than you had expected, and never once did he complain or get frustrated. As a child, you had hated learning French, and it was infinitely more difficult to learn language as an adult.

“You’ve surprised me, Mulligan. Well, then, I guess that means I’ll have time to check it right now.”

As soon as you spoke, Hercules blushed and gripped the letter in his hands so hard you thought he’d rip it.

“Ahh, no, that’s okay,” he said. “I’ll just take it back to my tent and send it over later. You need some time to relax.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mulligan. You’re already here, I’m already here. And if you take it I won’t be able to relax. I’ll just be stressing myself out all night over whatever is in that letter you don’t want me to see.”

He assumed a haughty look and pulled the letter even farther out of your reach. “Who said there’s anything in here for you? I was simply writing a letter, as per your instructions.”

“Okay, you’re right.” You let out a fake sigh of exasperation. “I’ll read the paper and if you send me the letter tonight, I’ll look over it tomorrow.”

His chest fell and his muscles relaxed. “Good, so–”

You took advantage of his loosened grip to spring forward and snatch the letter out of his hands. It may have taken him a lot of convincing to give it to you, but you knew that once you were reading, he wouldn’t be rude enough to take it back.

You grabbed the letter-opener which was perpetually stabbed into your pine desk (a terrible habit, but you were on the battlefield every other day, so you were accustomed to stabbing things) and tore into the letter.

“ _Ma cher…_ ” you spoke, your voice fading quickly. It took not three seconds of skimming the sheet to realise that you were right. This was a love letter. And more importantly, a love letter to you. Taking a deep breath, you continued, your voice and hands shaking.

_“Ma cher,_

_Quand je premiere entendu que tu me enseigne, j'étais très contente. J’ai tu connu pour plus que un an, mais ça semble que tu ne me remarques jamais. Je suis seulement un espion, et tu es trop bonne pour moi–le plus belle, plus amusante, plus intelligente femme que je connais. Je m’excuse pour mon comportement stupide: je me souviens quand je te premiere regardais et je pensais que tu j'étais seulement un autre femme de chambre, mais tu étais plus que ça. Mon cœur chante juste en te regardant planifie une nouvelle stratégie, lis ton nouveau livre, ou simplement souri. Tu est la raison je me réveille en le matin et tu est ce qui je pense en la nuit._

_Je m’appelle Hercules Mulligan, and je amour tu.”_

You didn’t know whether you wanted to cry, laugh, or kiss him, and in which order to do so. Instead, you stood up, tears in your eyes, and embraced him.

“ _Je t’aime_.” You said.

“What?” He asked, a note of surprise in his voice.

“‘ _Je t’aime_ ’. Not ‘Je amour tu’.” You laughed.

He rolled his eyes, grinning and dropped his hand to the small of your back. “Leave it to you to turn a declaration of love into a grammar lesson.” Shifting away slightly, he cast he gaze downwards. “But in all seriousness, (Y/N)…do you love me?”

You tip-toed and pulled the collar of his shirt, bringing his face just millimetres from yours. Seconds before kissing him, you whispered,

“Hercules, _je t’adore_.”


End file.
